opened his eyes. He has blue eyes, she completed, and bent to kiss his eyelids.
“What do you see?” he asked her.
“I see my love,” she answered. “What do you see?”
“I see my love.”
“Thin brown woman.”
“Beautiful woman.”
It was an old dialogue between them, six years old. It amazed Christy that, in their transient world, they had survived six years together. I love you, she thought at him.
Suddenly, as if someone had spliced it into her mind, she heard Zenan, drunk and sardonic. “If Jordan Granelli had a lover,” he said, “and that lover collapsed in front of him, dying, he’d first call the ambulance, and then call the cameras.”
What the hell? Angry, she thrust Zenan, the show, Granelli, from her mind, and like a shadow on a wall they crept back at her. “What is it?” Paul said.
“Ah. Come with me to work Monday,” she said suddenly.
“Why?”
“So that I can see you sooner.” So I can hold you in front of the shadows, she thought, like a bright and burnished shield. “Please.”
* * *
Sunday night, the shadows turned to nightmare black.
She was in Dacca, standing in front of a wretched yellow brick tenement. It was falling apart; there were even gaping holes in the shoddy walls, and it stank. The dust stung Christy’s eyes. She looked around for a landmark, but all she could see clearly was this one building; the dust clouds obscured the rest. I want to go back to the hotel, she thought, but, impelled, she went towards it. I don’t want to go in.
Close to the entrance something moved. Dog pack? She looked around in haste for a brick or a stone to pitch. But the dust drew aside for a moment and she saw: it was a woman, bending or crouching, close to the open door.
Her thin flowing robes were mud-stained, and she hunched like a flightless withered bird on the ground, holding something protectively to her breasts. The whites of her eyes were as yellow as the building. Jaundice. She stared at Christy and then “turned her head away, making a crooning wail. A fold of cloth fell away from her, and Christy saw that she was holding a baby. With terrible feeble movements of its lips it tried to suck, and then it cried, a whimper of sound. The woman’s breast was a dun-colored rag. She has no milk, Christy thought. The mother wailed again, and looked at Christy with huge imploring eyes.
I must have something. Christy reached for the little pack she carried at her hip. She pulled out a small can of goat’s milk with triumph, and pried it open with her knife. Hunkering down beside the woman, she held out the can. “Here.”
The woman sniffed at the milk. Then she took the can from Christy’s hand and tipped it towards the child’s mouth. The infant coughed, and the milk ran out, down its cheek and neck. The woman tried again. Again the baby coughed, a minute weak sound like a hiccough, and gave a gasp, and was still. The woman peered at it and let out a moan. “What is it?” Christy said, and then she saw that the child was dead. It had died as they tried to feed it. She touched its forehead with one finger and pulled her hand away quickly from the ferocious heat.
She started to cry, and with tears on her face, she stood up and stumbled away from the mother and the dead baby. She turned away from the building, and not three feet away from her, directly in her path, stood Jordan Granelli. He was carrying a tripod and a camera, and his face was the face of a skull. It grinned at her, and his hand patted the camera. “Thank you, Ms. Holland,” he said.
When Paul woke her, she was making small crying sounds in her sleep. He rocked her and stroked her. “A Dacca dream?”
“Yes—no. Come with me tomorrow, Paul, please!”
“I’ll come,” he promised.
“Love me. I need you to love me.” In the dark morning they made love, like two armies battling for a hilltop, intent on the same desire; sighted, grasped for, won.
* * *
They woke late that
“What do you see?” he asked her.
“I see my love,” she answered. “What do you see?”
“I see my love.”
“Thin brown woman.”
“Beautiful woman.”
It was an old dialogue between them, six years old. It amazed Christy that, in their transient world, they had survived six years together. I love you, she thought at him.
Suddenly, as if someone had spliced it into her mind, she heard Zenan, drunk and sardonic. “If Jordan Granelli had a lover,” he said, “and that lover collapsed in front of him, dying, he’d first call the ambulance, and then call the cameras.”
What the hell? Angry, she thrust Zenan, the show, Granelli, from her mind, and like a shadow on a wall they crept back at her. “What is it?” Paul said.
“Ah. Come with me to work Monday,” she said suddenly.
“Why?”
“So that I can see you sooner.” So I can hold you in front of the shadows, she thought, like a bright and burnished shield. “Please.”
* * *
Sunday night, the shadows turned to nightmare black.
She was in Dacca, standing in front of a wretched yellow brick tenement. It was falling apart; there were even gaping holes in the shoddy walls, and it stank. The dust stung Christy’s eyes. She looked around for a landmark, but all she could see clearly was this one building; the dust clouds obscured the rest. I want to go back to the hotel, she thought, but, impelled, she went towards it. I don’t want to go in.
Close to the entrance something moved. Dog pack? She looked around in haste for a brick or a stone to pitch. But the dust drew aside for a moment and she saw: it was a woman, bending or crouching, close to the open door.
Her thin flowing robes were mud-stained, and she hunched like a flightless withered bird on the ground, holding something protectively to her breasts. The whites of her eyes were as yellow as the building. Jaundice. She stared at Christy and then “turned her head away, making a crooning wail. A fold of cloth fell away from her, and Christy saw that she was holding a baby. With terrible feeble movements of its lips it tried to suck, and then it cried, a whimper of sound. The woman’s breast was a dun-colored rag. She has no milk, Christy thought. The mother wailed again, and looked at Christy with huge imploring eyes.
I must have something. Christy reached for the little pack she carried at her hip. She pulled out a small can of goat’s milk with triumph, and pried it open with her knife. Hunkering down beside the woman, she held out the can. “Here.”
The woman sniffed at the milk. Then she took the can from Christy’s hand and tipped it towards the child’s mouth. The infant coughed, and the milk ran out, down its cheek and neck. The woman tried again. Again the baby coughed, a minute weak sound like a hiccough, and gave a gasp, and was still. The woman peered at it and let out a moan. “What is it?” Christy said, and then she saw that the child was dead. It had died as they tried to feed it. She touched its forehead with one finger and pulled her hand away quickly from the ferocious heat.
She started to cry, and with tears on her face, she stood up and stumbled away from the mother and the dead baby. She turned away from the building, and not three feet away from her, directly in her path, stood Jordan Granelli. He was carrying a tripod and a camera, and his face was the face of a skull. It grinned at her, and his hand patted the camera. “Thank you, Ms. Holland,” he said.
When Paul woke her, she was making small crying sounds in her sleep. He rocked her and stroked her. “A Dacca dream?”
“Yes—no. Come with me tomorrow, Paul, please!”
“I’ll come,” he promised.
“Love me. I need you to love me.” In the dark morning they made love, like two armies battling for a hilltop, intent on the same desire; sighted, grasped for, won.
* * *
They woke late that
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